


into silk

by fitzefitcher



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Beware, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, just you know, starts in warcraft 3 and ends at the end of wrath, that's it that's the fic, there's some Canon-Typical Arthas Content TM but it's nothing too too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzefitcher/pseuds/fitzefitcher
Summary: “If it’s not too much to ask,” Garrosh replies through gritted teeth. “I would appreciate you letting me stay here. Thank you.” Jaina smiles at him beatifically.“Really, it’s no trouble at all,” she says. Thrall appears to be experiencing five simultaneous heart attacks.Or: ten times that Thrall, Jaina, & Garrosh, and the various combinations therein, had to share a bed.





	into silk

**Author's Note:**

> it occurred to me that if I wanted more content of my ot3, I would have to make it myself, which is Objectively Horrible
> 
> anyway I wanted to finish this for my birthday on the 9th but IRL shit is still getting in the way of everything.  
> happy fucking birthday to me, bitch!!!

It starts, like most of their troubles, with Hyjal.

It’s shortly after Jaina’s camp has been destroyed, and she’s barely managed to get away intact. She’s alright, mostly, but her forces aren’t, and while whatever wounds she’s sustained she considers second to theirs, she is still no less wounded. But with how crowded they are- the Horde united almost completely for the first time in years, and taking on new peoples on top of that- it leaves very little room for more. Their makeshift infirmary is congested as is, so when the question of where to actually put her arises, Thrall offers a solution: for Jaina to stay in his tent while he was away.

She’d be well-guarded, he reasons, and he’s not like he’d be there, most of the time; the Horde is the frontline now, and demons close in on them from all sides. Her sleeping in his tent is hardly a problem if he’s not in there, himself, and she needs the rest more than he does. They’re entering day three of the battle, and he suspects that up until now, she’s slept through none of it, the remnants of Lordaeron taking the brunt of the initial assault. He suspects that his camp will be soon to follow, and she needs all the rest she can get if things take a turn for the worse and she’s to teleport them out of there.

And it’s all well and good, they manage to survive another day, doing their damnedest to survive the now-relentless assault on their base, but with all the commotion, he manages to forget his little act of generosity. When he stumbles back to his tent that night, exhausted and morning close by, he nearly scares both himself and Jaina to death when he opens the tent flap and sees someone already in his bedroll. He has Doomhammer in hand instantly, adrenaline banishing any speck of sleep from his body, and Jaina’s in a similar state, sitting straight up like a jackknife and the flare of a spell weaving in her hands. Its glow illuminates them both, and he lowers his hammer, not calm, exactly, but better, despite his thundering heart. Recognition blooms on her face as well, and the spell goes out like a candle.

“Oh- oh, sorry, you scared me,” she apologizes, voice a little scratchy from sleep.

“No, no, it’s alright, I just forgot,” he explains, lenient. He goes to leave, but she stops him with:

“Wait, hold on,” and then, scrambling to get up, “You can have your tent back, I’m fine now,” like they haven’t been both running themselves ragged with this.

“No, it’s alright,” he says again. “I said you could stay here for the night, so you can stay here. I can just camp out for right now.”

“You need proper rest, too,” she asserts. “I don’t mind if you stay, I mean- ugh. You _should_ stay, it’s _your_ tent.” She’s digging her heels in now, in their fight to see who can bend over backwards the farthest, but Thrall’s too tired to keep going, so he gives in.

“Alright, just- just let me get changed,” he allows, and she nods, rolling over to look the other way.

The gravity of the situation doesn’t really sink in until he’s already peeled most of his armor off and is about ready to crawl into bed. He’s not sure where to put himself, and she doesn’t really know, either; she makes room for him, but it’s clear that there’s just not going to be enough, and they haven’t known each other nearly long enough to be comfortable with this, really. But they made their bed, and now they have to lie in it, literally.

Neither of them really sleep. Neither of them really do anything, except for maybe stare up blankly at the tent ceiling and not at each other. Thrall’s not really sure if he could’ve fallen asleep even if he was by himself, to be fair; he’s a little too on edge, still, and though there may be a lull in combat now, there’s still too much noise and commotion and fear for him to ignore it. Jaina appears to be feeling about the same, much too stiff one moment then suddenly jerking at any unexpected noise. But they begin to relax in the other’s presence, slowly but surely, and finally are able to curl and stretch around each other in sincere attempts at rest.

He dozes in and out of wakefulness the rest of the night, adrenaline jolting him awake again and again, but it is reassuring to not wake up alone, he supposes, Jaina’s company more of a comfort than he initially expected. Each time he wakes, she wakes as well, ready to combat whatever imagined terror his mind had conjured in his fitful half-sleep.

They make it through the night, however little remains of it. That’s all he can really ask for.

\---

Things do take a turn for the worse.

It’s not for a while, not until after Hyjal has been done and Orgrimmar and Theramore have been built, but inevitably, things get worse. Currently, Thrall and his forces are still on the island, cleaning up what Daelin Proudmoore had left in the wake of his siege. Jaina and most of her soldiers have already been freed from where the good admiral had bound them, but the damage has gone far beyond what they’ve done to the island; Jaina hasn’t said a word since her father fell, least of all to Thrall, and her soldiers, too, have gone pale and quiet with shock.

He thinks he should help, somehow, provide some means of comfort, but there is little to be said about the circumstances. Certainly, there’s nothing he could say to make it better. Her father is dead, and died declaring his daughter a traitor to her home kingdom. He died at the hands of their old enemies, with consent from his beloved daughter. There’s no doubt, whatever survivors will go back and tell the rest of Kul Tiras what happened, and she’ll be a traitor there, too. Theramore’s only friend will be Orgrimmar; her fallen father sealing their pact with his blood.

He likes to consider the two of them friends, but they’re hardly close. True, the sort of friendship forged through battle tends to be long-lived, but he hasn’t even known her a few months, and barely ever sees her at all. What could he even say to her, when he’s a fair-weather friend at best?

But, he tries- it’s about all he can do. He sticks around where she can see him, he sees to the wounded soldiers and the ruined structures, and speaks softly and gently to her, around her. He stays with her, he does his best to make sure she knows that she’s not alone. And when, at the end of that day when the sun has started to sink into the bog, she approaches him and asks that he stay longer still, he accepts.

“I just,” she starts, barely able to string the words together. “I don’t think I can be alone with my thoughts right now.”

“I understand,” he says, and he does- Blackmoore haunted his mind long after his death, and so did Orgrim, and now Grom. They haunt him even now. “It’s alright,” he assures her.

Slipping into her chambers is easy enough with Jaina veiling him with her magic; it’s the act of actually fitting in her bed that’s the hard part. As they look down on it, there is the realization that there is no way for them to fit comfortably without touching each other in some way. But he supposed he knew this already, when he agreed to it. It was the initial, awkward silence that was the most daunting. Thrall makes good on his promise, and meets it head-on.

He had already changed into his sleep clothes prior to her fetching him, and he thinks he should feel vulnerable, perhaps, when put in this position, no weapon and no armor in the bedchambers of someone who should be his most hated enemy, but as he slides under the sheets of her bed, he feels safe and secure. He only hopes that he makes her feel the same.

Thrall taking the first step helps; once he settles, she slides in next to him, lying on her side. They don’t sleep much better than the first time, or very much at all. When he closes his eyes, his dreams only allow thoughts of Grom to move to the forefront of his mind, and when it’s not Grom, it’s Orgrim, or Blackmoore, or Taretha. He dozes in and out, feeling sick and dazed for the scarce few moments he’s awake, and he’s only able to wake up completely when he hears an errant, muffled whimper from Jaina.

“Jaina?” he asks lowly. “Are you alright?” She’s lying on her side still, away from him, but he can see her shaking well enough. He doesn’t have to guess why. Jaina doesn’t reply, stifling her cries.

“I’m here if you need me,” he whispers to her. He touches a large hand to her shoulder, and this seems to be what convinces her. She rolls over to face him and tucks herself against his side, burying her face in his nightshirt. He gathers her all up in his arms and holds her close.

“I know,” she replies, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Thrall tells her. “I know you would do the same for me.” She sniffs. Thrall can feel his nightshirt become wet where her tears fall.

“Thank you,” she manages. It does not sound like it came easy. Sleep manages to claim them both, in time.

\---

She does do the same for him. She already has.

She starts it at Hyjal, and he meets her on the evening her father dies. She finds him when Grom’s memorial is put up, and he finds her when the news of Silvermoon’s destruction finally reaches them. She finds him. He finds her. Over and over, each time another tragedy befalls them, in a never-ending stream. They have each other. They make it through the night. They make it through every night.

\---

The Warchief’s visit to Garadar is certainly timely.

It couldn’t have been too long since adventurers from Azeroth began creeping into Nagrand in twos and threes and tens, and already, within a few days of them discovering Garadar, the Warchief of their new Horde deems to pay them a visit. They’re certainly a rowdy bunch, Garrosh notes, as green orcs, trolls, bull-men, and even elves and the walking dead, bully the town elders into letting them help them. Geyah folds easily- she always needs more help around the village, and he will not be the one to stop her from seeking it- but there’s a few that approach him, specifically, because supposedly his accursed father had finally done something to clear their family name, and there are apparently many who would want to meet the son of the departed Hellscream. He doubts that he could have done anything that worthwhile.

Then, Thrall comes.

He does it against the wishes of his guards and advisors, apparently, who apparently see him as so precious that they cannot allow him to leave their sight for even an instant, as he puts it. A cursory glance at the Horde members that have gathered around him for his visit reveals that there are many of them that feel about the same. He knows a fair few of them by name now, or at least by action, and knows for certain that all of them are at least friendly with the Mag’har at this point. It’s interesting to see this flipped, to see most of them on guard and weapon in hand. There are trolls and bull-men who patched up their wounded alongside the accursed dead, and they now lurk just behind him, words of power readied in their closed mouths. There are green-eyed elves and yet more undead not-so-subtly scanning the perimeter, swords and daggers glinting in their fists. They must have killed dozens upon dozens of ogres in their time here, for Geyah and Garrosh and their village, and now they look at them like they could be next. There are dozens of green orcs who’ve done the same, who’ve gotten reacquainted with their ancestral home and heritage, and now they’re caught between their pride for their newfound kin and their duty to protect their Warchief at all costs. They adore him, this man who leads the Azeroth Horde, and they would do anything for him- even if that means murdering friend and foe alike.

Garrosh isn’t quite sure how he feels about a man who acts be so flippantly towards his own importance, especially when surrounded by people who would literally kill for him, in his name. They would probably burn Garadar to the ground if he ordered it. He doesn’t appear to notice this or want to notice it, and instead spends all his time and attention on- on Garrosh, apparently. He looks at him with such hope, and such awe, and Garrosh isn’t really sure how to react to it. It is nice, on some level, to have met someone that doesn’t learn who he is and then hate him on principle, especially someone like Thrall, who realistically shouldn’t be having anything to do with a failure like him, but on the other hand, Thrall is so puppyish in his excitement that he is practically inescapable. Garrosh has never received this sort of attention in his entire life, and he can barely get a moment’s peace before Thrall finds him again and pelts him with questions.

He hardly thinks himself so important. He’s not really sure what Thrall sees in him, honestly.

Actually, no. Garrosh _does_ know what Thrall sees in him. He also knows that it isn’t there. Whatever glimmer of nobility his father had shown in the moments before his death, Garrosh grew up knowing full well that there were no scraps of it left for him. Yes, it was certainly kind of Thrall to seek him out and tell him that the Hellscreams had been redeemed, but the damage has already been done. His life is already half-wasted. Garrosh is twisted and broken and well-beyond fixing. Whatever good Thrall thinks will come of this, it’s of no use, and Garrosh refuses to be pitied.

Garrosh sets out to camp for a few days deep within Nagrand while all this blows over. He needed to hunt anyway, and he doubts Thrall will keep his interest for much longer. No one ever does; he’s too mean and miserable and bitter for anyone to stand to be around him for long.

Thrall, of course, finds him on day two of his hunt, as if hellbent on proving him wrong.

It’s morning, and Garrosh has only just sat down to cook himself some breakfast, when Thrall appears on the horizon, riding over the neighboring hill on a white wolf. The sun is still rising, and when Thrall rides down to meet him at his camp, it and all the twisting nether are at his back, framing him with golden light. It bounces off his dark hair as it flows freely behind him, and his bright blue eyes become brighter still when they meet Garrosh’s eyes.

And Garrosh thinks, _Oh no._

“ _There_ you are! I’m glad I found you-” he begins to say.

“What are you doing here?” Garrosh barks. Thrall’s face falls, and for a moment Garrosh feels guilty, but he pushes through it. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Garadar with Geyah?”

“She’ll be fine,” Thrall assures him. “There are plenty of Horde champions around to help keep an eye on her.” He puffs up with pride a little bit, at saying this. “Besides, I want to spend more time with you. I want to get to know you better, before I have to go back to Orgrimmar.”

This evokes. A strange reaction from Garrosh. His stomach does a little flip at these words, and there is something about them that is so tempting, but it’s hard to choke back the mistrust and cynicism that’s become second nature to him now. Garrosh considers Thrall, and his suggestion, and concludes that he’s not telling him everything.

“Did you tell anyone you were leaving to join me?” Garrosh asks, getting right to the point. Thrall’s expression goes a little funny for a minute, freezing up and poorly covering that up.

“Won’t your champions throw a fit once they’ve figured out you’re gone?” he asks flatly. Thrall bristles a little bit.

“No, it’s fine, I can take care of myself,” he asserts. “And that’s beside the point- we’re safer together than we are apart, anyway. Perhaps I could help you-”

“I don’t need help,” Garrosh grunts. “And I don’t need you getting in the way.” Thrall frowns. He goes to say something, then stops again, thinking on it another moment.

“Then I’ll just follow along,” he says, with a curious sort of smile. “And observe.” Irrationally, it feels like a threat. His smile feels ominous. Garrosh doesn’t trust it.

\---

It’s not a threat, as it turns out. It’s a _promise._

Garrosh can’t shake him no matter how much he tries. After he catches something to take back to the village- a couple talbuk, nothing too big but certainly nothing to sneeze at- Thrall is relentless with praise, and questions. All day long, the whole way back, he finds something to ask Garrosh about. What were the Mag’har like, what do they hunt, what do they eat, where do they sleep? He asks the most mundane of questions, receives the most mundane of answers, and acts like Garrosh is giving him precious secrets whose value cannot be measured.

Thrall is impressed with everything he says- he is overjoyed with their accomplishments, he is grieved by their losses, he feels everything so strongly and so deeply that Garrosh can’t help but be taken in by it, despite himself. Thrall is constantly looking at him, and smiling at him, big and open and joyous like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Is this why his champions are the way they are? Does he draw them in like this, and then wonder why they depend on him so heavily? Is this why he was able to draw the elements out of their hiding places again, and convince them to speak with their people once more?

He’s- he’s not of this earth, Garrosh decides. He can’t be. He must be one of those fey-creatures, wandering away from his realm to explore this mortal realm. He can find no other explanation for it, how he draws in everyone around him with frightening ease, how bright a blue his eyes are, like fire, like lightning, how at ease he is here in the cradle of the elements.

They’re not going to make it back tonight, Garrosh realizes; they’re going to have to make camp and start again tomorrow. He’s not going to survive the night. Thrall has set up his bedroll directly next to his and is asking him about the stars now. Stars. Really, he should just tell him no, just tell him to shut up and go to sleep, but. He’s not sure he actually _can,_ let alone if he _wants to._

Thrall keeps him up most of the night, just the same. They don’t wake up on time, like Garrosh wanted; in fact, they don’t wake up until it’s nearly midday. At some point during the night, the fire went out completely, and rather than build it back up again so that it would keep them warm until morning, for some reason Thrall elected to creep up closer and closer until he was practically on top of him and then fall asleep on him that way. That’s how Thrall’s champions found them- tangled up in each other and their bedrolls, with Thrall plastered to Garrosh’s chest.

They do, in fact, throw a fit about it.

\---

The next time it happens, it’s Garrosh’s first time in Orgrimmar, and he’s very, extremely drunk.

Thrall had decided, upon rediscovering their lost kin in Outland and connecting with them once more, to celebrate by inviting all that could attend to Orgrimmar for a grand feast. This apparently included Garrosh, as Thrall managed to drag him back to Azeroth for the occasion. Everything in Azeroth is fucking _enormous,_ Garrosh had come to learn. They had to cross a terrifyingly large body of water Thrall called an ocean where there was nothing but dark, swirling waters for miles around, and while Garrosh would happily say “no thanks” to whatever horror that was any day of the week, the worst thing was being thousands of feet above its surface, in a horrible, dubiously functional machine called a “zeppelin.” The ocean at least minded its own business and stayed exactly where it was; the zeppelin was not optional, nor was it voluntary. The zeppelin was apparently the quickest way back to Orgrimmar that didn’t involve teleportation, and until there was a stable teleport connection set up, Thrall didn’t want to risk it. Garrosh fails to see how this is the better option.

But they go by zeppelin, because Thrall said so, and he manages to talk Garrosh into coming onto the deck as they near Orgrimmar itself. It’s for the view, he says. Garrosh thinks he’s just doing it to show off. That’s what he would do, anyway, with how breathtaking a view it is. It’s shortly after this that Garrosh realizes that Thrall was actually serious about taking the Mag’har into his Horde, and giving them food, water, and shelter, like he had promised. Garrosh has no idea what to do with this information. He has never met anyone this kind or generous or genuine, and he has no idea how he’s supposed to react to it.

Thrall shows him around Orgrimmar, all aglow with affectionate pride, and answers every question he had before he knew he had it. Truth be told, Thrall didn’t have to try too hard to get him to open up, this time. This world is so radically different from the one he’s known all his life, and if the Mag’har are truly welcome and are truly part of the Horde, then he must learn everything he can about it. He wants to, even; Thrall makes it easy to. His enthusiasm is infectious, and endearing.

And this- this is why they’re _like_ this, this is why Thrall’s champions are so _taken_ with him. Garrosh can hardly blame them, at this point. When he has this realization for a second time, he’s pretty deep into his drink, and he’s probably had enough alcohol to knock out a fucking kodo, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Thrall is just- he’s so friendly, and so kind, and so _good_ that it’s honestly kind of a wonder that _more_ people aren’t like this about him.

So, Thrall shows him around- eloquent, even with drink in hand- and leads him round and round until eventually, they finally make it back to Grommash Hold. It’s only a couple hours until dawn, now, but Thrall is livelier than ever, the tips of his ears and the high points of his cheekbones flushed with alcohol. He still has Garrosh very thoroughly engaged, even now, though it comes to a point where his personal guard ushers him to bed, ever dutiful and protective of their esteemed Warchief. But Thrall apparently sees no reason why their conversation should stop now- he merely takes Garrosh with him, continues their conversation in his bedchambers.

They’ve long since passed the point where Thrall was much more casually intimate with him- he held his hand when he was leading him around for the most part, and even when they stopped, he kept a hand on Garrosh, on his shoulder, then his waist, then the small of his back. But he does nothing untoward Garrosh- all he wants is to talk with him. He’s talking right up until the very last second that he’s awake; one moment he and Garrosh are lying side by side on his bed while Thrall recounts their battle at Mt. Hyjal, and the next, Thrall is sound asleep. Another moment or so, and Thrall rolls over, seeking the source of heat that is Garrosh’s massive frame. He grabs onto his arm and settles down, content.

It’s- it’s too much. Thrall is too much. Garrosh has to protect him; he has too much to give.

\---

The guards are unamused, but unsurprised, to find him the next morning, still in Thrall’s bed with his arms wrapped around the waist of the man in question. They’re still fully clothed, lying on top of the sheets; the summer air was warm enough even at night where they could be perfectly comfortable in doing this. The guards can’t really do anything about it; Thrall won’t be moved. He seems content to burrow his head into his chest, for now, and Garrosh is loath to move him. Someone has to keep an eye on this idiot.

\---

Thrall’s new companion is certainly… interesting.

She’d heard an awful lot about him, prior to their meeting; Thrall spoke of him often in letters and in the few times he could sneak away to talk. It’d been more of the letters than the latter, as of late, with how busy Thrall has been, and Jaina tries not to sulk too much about it. She knows he’s got a lot to worry about, and it’s not like she’s doing much better- it’s just that, the fact of the matter was, ever since he’d been found and brought back to Azeroth, Garrosh Hellscream made everything he was involved with infinitely more difficult than it strictly needed to be.

Ever since Thrall had found Garrosh, he’s been busier than ever. And she gets that, truly she does, but it seemed like most of his issues nowadays were worsened or ultimately caused by Garrosh. He wasn’t particularly approachable, or gentle, or level-headed, and it seemed like every other word out of his mouth was something incendiary enough for someone to pick a fight with him- anyone, really. Jaina tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, at first, seeing as how he’s got a lot to deal with- being the son of Grom Hellscream was no easy life, she knew, not by a long shot- but no matter how much she’d try and talk to him, or engage with him, Garrosh was just cold, closed-off, and utterly insufferable. It seemed like he took particular grievance with her, and she had no idea why. She’s done nothing wrong.

It wasn’t as if the man was incapable of being personable. Clearly, he is on some level, if Thrall tolerates him enough to consider him a friend, and she’s seen their comradery from afar. It’s just, she wishes it wouldn’t end the moment she dared to approach them. Garrosh would turn and see her, and then he’d settle into a baleful glower the entire time she spoke with them, keeping it focused on her specifically. She just has to wonder, why did he even bother coming here, if he was going to act like this. He had to have known what Thrall’s intentions were with coming here. It’s a fucking peace summit, for fuck’s sake.

But he proved himself a true friend of Thrall’s soon enough, despite his wildly inappropriate behavior.

The summit was off to a somewhat rocky start- besides herself, Garrosh has apparently taken a particularly antagonistic interest in the newly rediscovered Varian, and the king reciprocated quite loudly- but it recovered soon enough, or it would have, were it not for the cultists’ attack. Garrosh apparently takes this as his moment to shine- and shine he does, swiftly dispatching each and every cultist that dare come near him and Thrall. He’s more concerned about Thrall’s safety than he is his own, and it’s apparent with each time that he takes a blow meant for Thrall, or shoves him out of the way, or screams at him to stay back. It would almost be touching if he wasn’t so aggressive about it. She would especially appreciate this if he didn’t take offense to each and every time she ousted him, beating him to the punch with her arcane frost.

They manage to fend off the attack just fine; really, it’s just annoying at this point. Jaina would just like for there to be one, singular time that she could get the Horde and Alliance to get along without the threat of utter annihilation backing her up. There’s a lot of injured, but no casualties, thankfully, at least not on their side. She can’t say the same for the Twilight’s Hammer, that’s for sure. She’d unfortunately taken a couple hits during the skirmish, but it was nothing dire; just some cuts and bruising, a little overuse of her magic. Nothing that stitches and hot tea wouldn’t cure. They have her cleaned up pretty quickly, but she ends up waiting in the infirmary to be discharged a bit longer than intended, because there are still quite a few injured people to look after, and no extra hands to compensate.

She ends up sitting with Garrosh, waiting for a doctor or nurse to let the two of them leave. The medical staff cast aside their faction divides pretty quickly, and they expected everyone else to do the same, at least for the purpose of the infirmary. They send him in a little while after they’re done with her. He took far worse of a beating than she did; really, she just needs to sit down for a bit and she’ll be fine. She’s not sure if she’ll be granted even that, with how tense the room becomes when he walks in.

He seems to be at least somewhat aware of it; enough that he doesn’t appreciate the wary glances of the nearby staff. He grimaces, baring his teeth for a moment before striding over. She’s not sure if this was an improvement or not. He’s not stomping anymore like he was earlier, but he seems to be doing this out of sheer pettiness. He sits right down next to her, too, the bench creaking under his weight as he just shy of slams himself down. He folds his bandaged arms in front of his chest and huffs.

Jaina has no time for this.

“Is Thrall alright?” she asks, a little on edge. It’s probably a little meaner than she intended; she hasn’t really slept in the past two days in trying to prepare for the summit, and her patience is down to its last threads. He startles a little. He probably didn’t expect her to try talking to him, let alone so snappishly. This is somehow irritating and gratifying, simultaneously. “I haven’t been able to see him yet, they won’t let me go anywhere.” He grits his teeth.

“Fine,” he manages to growl after a moment. “Not even a scratch.”

“Good,” she says, wearing her best and sharpest smile. “That’s good to hear. Thanks for keeping an eye out for him.” Two can play at this game, fucker.

He grunts in response, and Jaina supposes it’s agreeable, for shades of Garrosh. Things are quiet for a few minutes.

“You were,” he starts, apropos of nothing. “Better than expected, in battle.” It sounds like it pains him to say it. Jaina elects to twist the knife deeper.

“Pardon?” she asks, putting on her most innocent expression. He huffs a little, face scrunching up.

“Thrall has told me of your prowess in combat,” he tells her, a little resentfully. “It looks like he was right about you.” He looks at directly in the eye when he says this, and she thinks this was the hardest for him to say of all.

“Thanks,” she says a little flatly. That’s the most he’s going to get out of her, right now. She’ll meet him in the middle when he actually deigns to meet her there, too.

But they go quiet again, and actually manage to tolerate each other and act with civility. They don’t have much of a choice, at this point. It’s another hour before someone comes out to talk to them, and when they do, it’s to apologize and tell them that they have to keep waiting. Jaina’s been steadily wilting this whole time, but she’s been through worse; she’s had to go through finals week at Dalaran, she can stay awake through this.

“Proudmoore,” Garrosh says gruffly. Jaina’s eyes pop open. She’s leaning on him.

(Or not.)

“You dozed off,” he tells her matter-of-factly.

“Sorry,” she tells him sincerely, pulling away. “I haven’t slept much in the past couple days preparing for this. I guess I’m just running out of steam,” she adds, laughing at little at her own expense. Garrosh frowns.

“It’s alright,” he grunts, barely intelligible. “Not like we’re going anywhere.” With that, he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. It’s probably as much of an invitation as she’s going to get.

“Fair enough,” she says.

She doesn’t consciously remember leaning against him and falling asleep again, but she must have, because the next she opens her eyes, he’s carefully nudging her awake.

“Nurse’s here,” he tells her.

“Mm-hm,” she replies sluggishly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Garrosh is very warm, as it turns out, and she is very cold after being parted from her makeshift pillow. She doesn’t really remember much after that. The nurse takes a final look at them and sends them on their way, and then she wakes up in her own bed, still exhausted. She has no idea how she got there.

They don’t talk about it. It’s probably for the best that they don’t.

\---

As always, they meet again when tragedy strikes.

He is barely back in Orgrimmar, refugees from Undercity still gathered in the Valley of Strength for shelter, when he feels the now familiar pull of the arcane around him. He doesn’t see her, but he knows she’s here; there’s a faint scent of ozone wafting through, though it hasn’t stormed in weeks. Some of the Kor’kron shamans perk up a bit, glancing around, but they have no time to look proper. Besides, some of them seem to already have an idea of who it is, and don’t particularly care, either way. There’s only one person who would be so brazen as to manifest themselves in Grommash Hold directly, and that very person already did so earlier, to warn them about Wrynn’s misguided attack on the Undercity to begin with. They have no quarrel with her, at least not now.

He makes his way to his bedchambers, knowing that she’ll already be there when he arrives. Supporting this, the smell of ozone becomes stronger as he draws closer. He doesn’t think he’s ever encountered another mage whose use of magic had such distinct aftereffects on the environment around it; true, the hum of magic could be heard and felt by anyone who knew to listen, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of any other mage whose arcane prowess left the air smelling of salt and petrichor. It’s just Jaina, he’s sure, who brings the sea with her wherever she goes.

His guards leave him grudgingly when he reaches his rooms, and when he opens the door, a sea breeze wafts past, warm and gentle in spite of the encroaching winter. He closes the door quickly, keeping that sea breeze for himself.

“How is everyone?” Jaina asks softly. She’s already in her nightgown and partly under the covers.  Whatever awkwardness they may have started with has long since departed; there was no other they could rely on for this and seeing her in his bed only makes him long all the more for that comfort, even as he prepares to join her.

“They’re adjusting,” he tells her, beginning to shuck off pieces of his armor. “We still have to clean up, but they shouldn’t have to be here for too long. They’ll be back home in no time.”

“Orgrimmar seems to mind,” she says quietly. He can hear her blaming herself already.

“Orgrimmar will put up with it whether they like it or not,” he replies adamantly, undoing the straps of his pauldrons. “The Forsaken are Horde and we will take care of them, just like they would for us. They are family, and they need help.” Jaina cracks a small smile.

“You don’t need to tell _me_ , Thrall,” she tells him. She laughs, but her voice is quavering. He sighs.

“I know, I know, sorry. I just had an argument with nearly every shopkeeper about it on the way here. Nobody is happy about it.” There’s a pause as he sits on the edge of the bed and begins taking off his boots. He pulls off his undershirt, grimy with blood and sweat. He feels disgusting, and he’s not bringing that filth into his bed.

“Do you mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing vaguely.

“Oh no, go ahead,” she allows, waving a hand. He goes behind a partisan on the other side of the room and shucks the rest of his clothing. He grabs the washcloth hanging off the partisan, dunks it into the small basin of water off to the side, and begins quickly wiping himself down. It’s not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it’ll get him clean enough, for now.

“Do you need help with your hair?” Jaina calls across the room. He thinks for a moment. He doesn’t, not really; he could probably tolerate it until tomorrow when he could get a proper shower.

“Maybe,” he says instead, lowly, not quite ready to admit wanting that level of intimacy. Jaina giggles at his expense. “Give me another minute,” he adds, hurriedly scrubbing himself with the washcloth. He quickly dries himself with a towel, also hanging off the partisan, then wraps it around his waist. Jaina knows his routine well enough to know when to come over.

She brings the chair from his desk over for him to sit, and then carefully undoes his braids, running her fingers through his hair. She takes a brush from next to the basin and starts working out the tangles, and he relaxes under her touch. She has him tip his head back, hair dipping into the basin, and carefully washes out the grime and sweat from the day. It goes quicker than he’d like; he dozes off shortly after she starts, and it seems like it’d only been moments before she’s nudging him forward, so she could dry his hair. He needed this far more than he’d like to admit.

When she’s satisfied with drying it, she goes back to bed so he can dress himself. It’s only another minute or two, but he’s still very happy to be clean and dressed and to have the contentment of knowing that someone is waiting for him in his bed. He’s very impatient to get there, himself.

(He carefully stows away the undercurrent of longing beneath it. Now is not the time for that. He’s not certain as to when that time will ever be, but it’s certainly not now, and certainly not without Jaina’s explicit reciprocation. He would rather keep that longing to himself for the rest of his days than to ever be the cause of her unhappiness.

He will not be yet another man to cause her harm. That would be the very worst thing he could do to her.)

Finally, he climbs into bed. She scoots over a little to give him enough room to lay down, then immediately slides into place at his side, sighing contentedly. A pleased rumble escapes him before he can stop himself from doing it, and she laughs a little again. She props herself up enough to hug him, soothing his embarrassment, then returns again to his side. All of this has definitely helped her as well, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s still something a little off. Her supposed cheer seems too calculated, there was slightly too much effort to make it convincing. Before he can ask, she confirms his fears, soon enough.

“How’s Sylvanas?” she asks, quiet again. There’s something worrying about her voice- it’s a little too neutral. He chooses his words carefully.

“Furious, of course,” he says after a moment. “But she’ll recover. She has us, though that seems to have been a surprise to her.” Truthfully, he doesn’t know if Sylvanas will ever truly feel part of the Horde. But he’ll do his best to make her feel welcome, just the same. Before he can voice this, however, Jaina decides to finally admit what’s been troubling her all night. It wasn’t hard to guess.

“I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” she tells him. She won’t look at him, instead staring at the far wall. “I couldn’t stop him.”

“Jaina, that is in no way your fault,” he replies.

“If I’d tried harder-”

“There was nothing you could do to stop him, Jaina,” he tells her decisively. “It is not up to you to try and clean up every mess Wrynn makes. Or any mess that anyone else makes,” he adds. His aim is true; she flinches, tearing up. He holds her more tightly to himself, turning her towards him.

“Listen to me,” he says. Reluctantly, she meets his gaze, but only partially, hiding her face in his chest. “You tried your hardest. We all did. We did everything we could to prevent this from happening.”

“I know,” she allows, voice cracking. “But it wasn’t enough.” He sighs.

“I know,” he echoes. “But we can’t let that stop us from moving on. It happened. Worse things have happened, and they will almost certainly continue to happen. But we have to keep going. We have to be strong enough to pick up the pieces and move on.” She’s breathing a little heavily, shuddering.

“Thrall, I’m so tired,” she tells him, wretched with despair. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to keep trying and trying and trying when no one else will try with us.”

“…I’m tired of this, too,” he admits. “I know this is hard. Believe me. But you’re not alone, alright?” Jaina sniffs, shaking. He clutches her tighter. “You have me, and Vol’jin, and Cairne- we’re all trying.” He pauses.

“You have Wrynn, too, if he can get his head out of his ass. He’s trying, too, even if he’s being a jackass about it,” Thrall tells her, a little biting but sincere. “He’s your friend, too, and he’d probably kill for you if you asked. He’ll come around, eventually.” She worms her way further up the bed and nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck, clutching his shoulders with trembling hands.

“Thank you,” she manages to say, mumbled and barely coherent. But still, she says it. “You’re too nice to me.”

“You would do the same for me,” he says.

She already has.

\---

They haven’t spoken in months.

Not directly, anyway; there’s been missives, and letters, all bitingly formal in the wake of their argument some months ago when this wretched campaign started in the first place. Garrosh knows, deep down, that “argument” is too light a term for it. It’s probably the worst fight he’s ever had with Thrall in the entirety of his knowing him. And Garrosh knows, deep down, that it is almost entirely his fault.

But he wouldn’t have started it if Thrall hadn’t been wavering at the worst possible time for it, and he certainly wouldn’t have escalated it so quickly if Thrall hadn’t been so quick to lose his temper with him. Garrosh may not know much about the Scourge but he knows that they, Horde and Alliance both, should never hesitate to take them out when they could. The Scourge are a threat that will build and build with every moment they are left unbeaten. Even _Windrunner_ agreed with him for fuck’s sake, and she never agreed with anyone about anything. But Thrall _didn’t_ , and even had the nerve to bring up getting help from that Proudmoore woman _and_ the sins of his father in the same breath, just because Garrosh _dared to disagree with him,_ and Garrosh saw red. He can take other people dredging up his father’s sordid past, he’s used to that, but not from Thrall. Thrall’s supposed to be different. He’s supposed to understand. Thrall isn’t supposed to be among the masses of people that doubt him and look down on him.

…It’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Anger is what Garrosh is good at. It’s where he’s comfortable. He doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that it was a very real possibility that he may have irreparably damaged one of the only friendships he’s ever had. He can still remember Thrall’s face very clearly, after Garrosh had challenged him- a volatile mixture of anxious fury and shocked hurt. He looked like a cornered animal lashing out. Garrosh wasn’t the one to put him there, but he certainly didn’t help any.

Thrall was _vicious_ in the arena. He fought like Garrosh had never seen before. True, Thrall had told him on occasion that he had spent his youth as a gladiator pet to that wretched human Blackmoore, but it’d never surfaced in full force prior to this. Garrosh had come at him with barbed words as well as blows, hoping to throw him off his balance, but this only seemed to make him angrier. He had never seen such a dark fury arise in Thrall before, and he never wants to see it again. He can only imagine the sort of ruthlessness that would have surfaced next if they hadn’t been interrupted.

Garrosh thought that, after the attack and clearing out the remaining Scourge, things would patch up between them, but Thrall remained distant and terse, still looking at him like that cornered, fear-maddened animal. Shortly after that, he shipped Garrosh up to Northrend, just like Garrosh had insisted for him to do. They haven’t spoken since. Garrosh misses his company a lot more dearly than he’d like to admit.

Which is why, despite all this, he still finds himself at the airship dock in Warsong Hold, waiting for Thrall’s zeppelin to arrive. He has no idea of what to say to him. He has no idea of what Thrall will do. He doesn’t know if Thrall would still be fearful or angry or both, or if he would even give him the time of day, anymore. But he’s not going to be beaten by this so easily. And so: he waits on the docks, on the day the zeppelin is supposed to arrive, ready to fight for it.

The zeppelin arrives precisely when it was planned to, everything going off without a hitch, but the waiting is agony. He didn’t have to wait that long, realistically, but being left with his own thoughts is a dangerous sort of pastime. His stomach is churning with dread by the time Thrall takes his first steps off the zeppelin and onto the docks. He looks exhausted; his face is ashen, and there are bags under his eyes.

He raises his head and meets Garrosh’s gaze. Thrall is no longer angry, or scared, but something seems to give that shouldn’t, and he surrenders to Garrosh’s determined glare, like he knows already that Garrosh is just going to hurt him and is already resigned to it. He was defeated utterly before he had even arrived. Garrosh knows, instantly, spurred on by wounded fury, that he hates this. This is completely unacceptable.

His hands have thrust forward and grabbed onto the collar of Thrall’s cloak before he’s realized he’s done it, and he snarls, “Come on. Let’s get you off of that god-awful contraption.” Thrall hums an affirmation in response and lets himself be dragged off of the docks and down into the forge below. He doesn’t say anything, least of all to Garrosh. Garrosh hates this, too, but struggles to come up with a way to combat it. He does nothing. He takes Thrall to Saurfang and leaves him there with him. If he wants to be miserable, then that’s his fucking business.

\---

They continue to not speak for no more than a few words at time for several days. Thrall greets him and doesn’t say much else. Garrosh doesn’t give him anything in response, save for grunts and snarls. He gives him the bare minimum, because that’s what Thrall’s giving him. He hates this, too, probably even more than Thrall looking exhausted and miserable, more so with each passing day. They talk around each other, they talk to Saurfang when he is there instead of each other, they avoid all unnecessary contact. Garrosh hates this most of all.

The day before they’re supposed to leave for Dalaran for what will probably be another ineffectual summit between them and that idiot human king and Proudmoore is when it becomes unbearable. Thrall’s exhaustion has only been getting worse and worse with every passing day. He’s almost certainly losing sleep over this, and the Wrathgate, and the Undercity, and Garrosh, and fucking everything else he shovels onto his plate. That night, after Garrosh had readied for bed but before he had managed to fall asleep, still fuming, he got up and stormed to Thrall’s temporary quarters. He didn’t have to knock more than once- he knew Thrall was still awake, and Thrall probably knew that he knew. The door creaks open, and Garrosh tries to hold onto that hurt anger as long as he can, because the guilt underneath is threatening to swallow it up.

“What is it?” Thrall asks, and there are already notes of surrender threaded into his voice.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Garrosh asks, the question bursting out of him. Thrall blinks at him, brow furrowing, and he really doesn’t have to fucking look at him like that, Garrosh knows how fucking stupid the question sounded even as he was saying it.

“You knocked on the door,” Thrall replies, baffled, and Garrosh huffs and sighs at him. This is the first time he’s stood up for himself all week and he chooses now of all times to fucking do it.

“It’s not as though you were already asleep,” Garrosh says, accusing. “You haven’t gotten any sleep all week, have you?” Thrall just squints at him again, and it’s truly a testament to how little rest he’s gotten with how long it takes him to formulate a reply.

“What does that have to do with anything,” he says. His voice is too flat for it to be a question, but it’s clearly phrased like one. “Garrosh, why are you here.” Garrosh sighs again and shoves him backwards into his room, hot in pursuit. The door slams close behind him.

“Why do you always do this?” he demands. “Why do you always put so much on yourself?” This seems to wake Thrall up a little bit, enough to fight back, anyway.

_“Someone_ has to,” Thrall snaps. “Since I can’t seem to rely on anyone else to do it.” Anger streaks anew through Garrosh’s veins, hot and dizzying. Garrosh shoves him again, but Thrall has become an immovable wall. He has assumed his full height, and his eyes are alight with fury. This is far more relieving than it probably should be.

“My apologies. I was unaware that none of us mere mortals lived up to the expectations of the great Son of Durotan,” Garrosh growls, grinning at him with sharp teeth. Thrall snarls, louder, fiercer, and shoves back at him with such force that Garrosh almost stumbles. Almost.

“Why must you always fight me at every turn?” he growls.

“Why can’t you just trust me?” Garrosh shoots back. “Do you think me such a failure that I am incapable of doing anything you ask? Do you think everyone is just beneath you?”

“That’s not what I said,” Thrall snaps.

_“Yes, it is,”_ Garrosh argues.

_“Fine!”_ Thrall yells. _“Prove me wrong, then!”_

“Actually give me a chance to do so, and I will,” Garrosh growls. That’s what does it for Thrall- he roars at him, pupils shrunken into little pinpricks, and pushes him against the wall. His fists are clenched in Garrosh’s bed shirt, claws shredding the fabric, and his hackles are standing on end. This goes to Garrosh’s head more than any drink ever could, adrenaline rushing through him. He is acutely aware of all senses- the feel of cold iron behind him and Thrall’s heavy hands, the sound of Thrall’s growling and his own shortened breath, the smell of his own sweat and Thrall’s and the ever-present scent of fire and ash from the forge permeating every inch of the hold.

“Finally, you’re pushing back,” Garrosh breathes, too gleeful to hold it in. All at once, Thrall pushes off of him, releasing him from his hold, scoffing, but his hands still tremble from the rage in his blood.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” Thrall hisses. He won’t look at Garrosh. That’s fine; Garrosh already knows he’s won.

“Thrall,” Garrosh presses. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Because you’re _still here,”_ Thrall sneers coldly. Garrosh has no time for this.

“That’s not why. Don’t lie to me,” he says.

“Fine,” Thrall growls. “Because if tomorrow doesn’t go well, then there’s no way we’ll be able to defeat the Scourge and we’ll all die for it. That’s why I’m not fucking sleeping; I have to figure out how I can get you and Wrynn in the same room without you two wanting to kill each other on sight.”

“There’s no way you can stop that,” Garrosh tells him straight out. Thrall throws his hands up in irritated disbelief.

_“I guess we’ll just die, then!”_ he cries out, frustrated.

“You don’t know that,” Garrosh tells him. Thrall turns to look at him. He’s going to fucking kill him. Good, Garrosh thinks. Now he’ll stand up to those fucking Alliance dogs just fine, now that he’s riled up.

“You can’t control what I do,” Garrosh says. “And you definitely can’t control what Wrynn does. He can make his own decisions, and if he wants to blame us for the Wrathgate-” Thrall tries to say something, but Garrosh keeps going. “-then that’s on him. But he’s not an idiot. He knows the Alliance won’t survive without the Horde aiding their pathetic endeavors.”

Thrall looks exhausted again, but for different reasons. He still looks like he’s going to kill him, so they’re still on the right track.

“You could still stand to try a little harder with him,” he grouses. “And with Jaina.” Garrosh rolls his eyes at him.

“I will if he does,” Garrosh says. “I can play nice well enough with those Alliance pigs, but if he tries to pin all the blame on us again, I’m not going to take it lying down.” Thrall goes to say something, then stops.

“Fair enough,” he says after a moment.

“You’re not alone in this, Thrall,” Garrosh tells him. “You don’t have to shoulder every little thing by yourself. You’re not a fucking martyr, quit acting like one.”

“I need to actually get some sleep at some point tonight, Garrosh,” Thrall tells him, cutting him off.

“I know,” Garrosh says impatiently. “Get in the bed.” Thrall looks at him with furrowed brows again, confused.

“Are you planning on joining me?” Thrall asks sarcastically. Garrosh nods once.

“Obviously,” he says. There’s no way that he hasn’t been getting nightmares over this, and he needs as much sleep as he could get. Thrall looks like he has some Opinions on that matter, but ultimately doesn’t say anything; he just throws up his hands again and then throws himself into bed with a huff, sulking. Garrosh is almost all too quick to join him, and crowds into his space easily, pulling Thrall into his side with little resistance.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Thrall mutters. Joke’s on him; Garrosh is right. Thrall is out like a light in under a minute, now that he’s here to keep him safe.

\---

Thrall is about as restless in his sleep as Garrosh expected him to be. He wakes up multiple times, horrors unseen by Garrosh lurking behind his eyelids, and Garrosh wakes up with him each and every time, holding him until he stops shaking. They’re not fine, exactly- Thrall is still thoroughly annoyed with him, and rolls his eyes when Garrosh squeezes him closer even as every other part of him welcomes the touch- but this is better. They can work with this. Garrosh certainly can, anyway.

\---

The summit, of course, is an appalling failure.

It probably would have worked better if King Wrynn had actually been alerted to their coming beforehand, but judging by his immediate reaction upon seeing their arrival- which is to say, immediate, violent anger- Garrosh doubts that he would have even showed up in the first place. Predictably, Wrynn regarded them as little more than dumb beasts, and Garrosh refused to stand for it.

What happened with Proudmoore was… regrettable. He did not intend to involve her in any way when challenging Wrynn, let alone send her crashing to the floor, but in all honesty, he didn’t even realize that she was there until afterwards, when Thrall was berating him for it. After he had taken his leave (upon realizing that there would be no chance of Wrynn treating them as equals whatsoever), Thrall had found him a short while later and railed into him for it. Garrosh isn’t sure what he’s angrier about, the fact that he got into another confrontation with the High King or how he managed to injure one of his closest friends while doing it. Either way, they’re back to not being on speaking terms again, and Garrosh isn’t sure how much more of it he can take.

Despite all of this, the most regrettable had yet to come, at least where Proudmoore was concerned. After the initial meeting, Rhonin had intended for them to stay another couple days or so in the Violet Hold so that they may continue their talks of a potential truce (or even partnership), and had set up accommodations for them within the Hold to do so. He probably had anticipated how long it would potentially take for them to work through such a thing, but not Wrynn outright rejecting the idea and storming off in a huff. Still, the accommodations were there for their use, and Garrosh fully intended to retire to his room for the rest of the night to seethe in peace. So, it was a little bit of an issue when one of the apprentice mages had led him to his room, and upon opening the door, he saw that Thrall and that Proudmoore woman were already in it. They are. Not pleased to see him, to say the least.

Thrall startles before he can help it, but Proudmoore at least has the grace to _not_ look like she’s been caught red-handed. She does not get up where she’s seated, a small couch meant for human proportions, but Thrall damn near jumps out of his skin. Garrosh barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. They obviously weren’t doing anything before he had interrupted them.

“Good evening,” she greets casually, and it’s a little too neutral for it not to be deliberate. “Are you here to escort Thrall back to your rooms?” As if to support this, Thrall makes it to the doorframe in two or three swift strides and stands to the side, waiting. Garrosh squints at them, and the apprentice’s face goes a little too blank.

“I was told _this_ was my room,” he asserts.

“Oh?” Jaina asks, nonchalant. “That’s a little odd. I was told that it was mine.” She doesn’t break eye contact with him as she says it, and something about this is instantly infuriating. Both Thrall and the apprentice look to be in varying states of wishing they were literally anywhere else but here.

“I’m so sorry, there must have been a mix-up,” the apprentice tells them, willing the little tremor of dread out of their voice. They are unsuccessful.

“It’s not a problem,” Thrall hastily replies. “Garrosh can stay with me for the night, it’s not a big deal.” It is a big deal; Thrall doesn’t want to be anywhere near him. Thrall probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near anyone except for maybe Jaina fucking Proudmoore.

“No, no, I’ll go take care of it,” they insist, striding back from whence they came. “I’ll go clear this up straightaway!”

Garrosh is tired of this. He’s so fucking tired of being handled with kit gloves, of being talked _at_ and not _to_ , and being regarded as a bomb that could go off any second.

“No,” Garrosh says, firmly enough that the apprentice halts in their tracks halfway down the hall and nearly falls flat on their face. “Don’t-” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not worth the trouble.” Thrall looks at him like he grew a second fucking head, and Jaina merely raises an eyebrow at him.

“Are you sure?” she asks, the very image of concern. “It’s alright if you just want to stay here tonight. I think it’s a little late to try and find yourself a new room now, and there’s certainly more than enough space for the both of us in here.” He glances warily at the sorceress. Her expression hasn’t changed, but she’s looking at him expectantly, awaiting his answer.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” he replies through gritted teeth. “I would _appreciate_ you letting me stay here. _Thank you.”_ She smiles at him beatifically.

“Really, it’s no trouble at all,” she says. Thrall appears to be experiencing five simultaneous heart attacks.

“Are you sure?” he asks, it bursting out of him. “You can stay with me, it’s alright-”

“It’s fine,” Garrosh snaps, cutting him off. He stalks past him and into Jaina’s room, trying and failing to keep his anger to himself.

“Goodnight, Warchief,” he says with a note of finality, just barely not slamming the door shut behind him. His clenches his fists, nails digging into the palm of his hands, and wills himself to not be angry. He turns to look at Jaina, but her expression still hasn’t changed, all carefully affected concern sculpted onto a completely unrattled demeanor. A moment passes before Garrosh can swallow his anger long enough to string words together.

“Thank you, again,” he says a little roughly. “For allowing me to stay here.”

“It’s alright,” she tells him again, as if it’s nothing. It’s not _nothing,_ they both know it’s not _nothing_ , why must she _act_ like this and insult him without having to even say a single word-

Garrosh takes a deep breath. Unclenches his fists.

It’s going to be a long night.

\---

They change into their sleep clothes and ready for bed in relative quiet, moving around each other in an unspoken agreement to leave the other to their business. They have to break this agreement momentarily, when the question of where Garrosh would actually bed down came up, but they manage to work something out, in spite of each other.

“Here, I can take the couch,” Jaina offers. “I think it’s a little too small for you anyway; the bed will fit fine.”

“It’s your room,” Garrosh asserts. “You should have the bed.” Jaina’s brows furrow slightly.

They’ve been at it for a few minutes now, and Jaina is finally beginning to lose patience with him. That is perfectly fine with Garrosh- he has long since tired of the strange, forced politeness she’s been putting up as a front. He wants to see the sorceress’ true face.

 “Don’t be silly,” she tells him, sweetness underlined with adamance. “The couch is far too small for you. Just take the bed.”

“I could not take advantage of your kindness like this,” Garrosh says, a little calmer now that he’s on even ground with her.

“Alright then, why don’t we both take the bed?” she offers, sincerity a little more biting than she probably intended.

“Fine by me,” he replies easily. Two can play at this game, witch. “We’re both rational adults, I don’t see why not,” he adds, smirking. Fury washes over her before she can hide it- not in her face, which she has already mastered disguising, but in the surge of all-consuming pressure that emanates from her for a split second. He may not have the skill (or taste) for magic, but he is not so dense that he does cannot sense the obvious, and there was none so obvious as a spellcaster who had been crossed for the last time. Jaina, he finds, is a bit like staring into the bottomless depths of the ocean, and seeing what monstrous things lie at the bottom. There is so much power to be found there- too much for her to hide without great effort, and too dangerous for her to just let loose. Thrall told him that the land from where she came was known for its great reverence towards the sea- perhaps the sea had given them something in return for it.

“Of course,” she replies, showing just a glint of her teeth, and Garrosh cannot deny the little thrill this petty victory gives him.

Climbing into bed is a much easier affair than expected. Jaina insisted he enter first, of course, and he unfortunately cannot deny the logic behind it, however grudging he may be about it. Jaina then carefully slid in next to him, and after a very terse goodnight, they faced away from each other, back to back. Sleep does not come easy, or but Garrosh manages to slip into a doze before something else happens.

There’s a strange sort of low humming, so quiet it was almost imperceptible until suddenly it stopped. The ensuing quiet was painfully obvious and hung over them ominously. He hears Jaina sigh behind him.

“Incredible,” she muttered. “Absolutely incredible.”

“Hmm?” Garrosh asks wordlessly.

“That was the heating going out,” Jaina says humorlessly. She doesn’t say anything else.

 He rolls over to face her. Her shoulders are bunched up, radiating irritation, and there’s an impressively large bruise forming, probably from when she fell. Guilt and frustration surge again- _how were humans this fragile?_

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For earlier. For hurting you.”

“It’s-” Jaina begins to say, then sighs angrily and flips over to face him as well. “Alright, it’s not fine, but it doesn’t matter- you knocking me over is the _last_ thing on my mind right now.”

“I’m not sorry about fighting Wrynn, if that’s what you’re asking,” he tells her stubbornly.

“I just- _Really? Not even a little?”_ she asks, exasperated. “You’re not even a little bit sorry about that?”

“Not at all,” he asserts. Jaina sighs again.

“I don’t understand how in the world you thought that would help our cause,” she hisses.

“I didn’t,” he replies. Jaina makes a noise like she’s trying to swallow a scream. She sits straight up, outraged.

_“Were you even thinking at all?!”_ she snaps, losing her temper at last. _“Do you know how much work Thrall and I have put into this?!”_ Garrosh sits up as well, looming over her.

“I will not tolerate the Horde or its people being treated as lesser,” Garrosh growls dangerously. “And I will not allow Thrall to ally us with those who won’t see us as anything more than rabid dogs needing to be put down. Do not pin all the blame on me, when it is your King who refuses to accept us as we are.”

“I understand that,” she says evenly, refusing to back down. “And I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking is that you don’t respond to _every single thing_ with violence. Brute force is not going to make him stop treating you so poorly.”

“And why not?” he demands. “It seems to work for _him_ just fine.” Jaina groans, rubbing her temples with her fingers.

“Gods, I know, _I know,”_ she replies. Garrosh blinks at her. “Believe me, I am well aware of the king’s hypocrisy. I’ve tried talking to him about it so many times. He just won’t listen to me.”

“Make him listen,” Garrosh tells her. Jaina scoffs.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, brushing him off. “And not all of us are at liberty to just throw a fit until we get what we want.”

“Why not?” he demands again. “If he can do it, why not you?”

“Because-” she starts. Stops, frustrated. “Because it just doesn’t work that way, alright?” Garrosh growls, rolling his eyes at her.

“I don’t understand you humans,” he tells her pointedly. “Why do you all think yourselves so above us and say that violence and brute force won’t work when that’s all that does work, even amongst yourselves?” Jaina looks like she has some Opinions about that, but he does not give her the chance to expound upon them.

“You’ve said that he won’t listen to you, and you are easily the smartest human on the entire Alliance,” Garrosh begins. “If he won’t respond to logic, then why not brute force?” Jaina blinks at him.

“Yell at him. Scream at him. If he won’t listen to your reason, you _make_ him listen.” Jaina sighs.

“You know,” she starts. “I really wish that wasn’t beginning to sound like a good idea.”

“It _is_ a good idea,” he asserts. She snorts. It is incredibly undignified and not something he was expecting from her. She’s shivering a little bit, the cold setting in around them. Garrosh lays back down, making room for her at his side.

“Come here,” he commands. “Before you freeze to death.” She snorts again, shaking her head, but she lies back down, curling against his side much more easily than he expected.

“Oh?” she says. “You’d actually help me?” She’s laughing a little, as she says it. It’s not a nice laugh.

“I would not let Thrall’s friend perish under my watch,” he tells her, to clarify.

“How generous,” she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. There’s a growl rumbling in his throat before he can quite stop himself.

“You are very important to him,” he tells her begrudgingly. Jaina is quiet for a few moments. Then:

“…you really do care for him deeply, don’t you,” she says. It’s not a question, not really; it’s more of a realization on her part. One that Garrosh takes some offense to, in all honesty.

“Was that not obvious?” he asks, annoyed that it was even up for debate.

“Not really,” she says, arguing again. “You certainly have an odd way of showing it.”

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”_ he demands.

“It’s hard to tell that you actually care about him when it seems like all you do is pick fights with him, the people around him, or otherwise just go well out of your way to cause problems,” she says very pointedly. “Speaking from an outsider’s perspective.” He bristles under her criticism, sputtering.

_“Everything I do, I do for Thrall and his Horde,”_ Garrosh insists angrily. Something like recognition flickers across Jaina’s expression. She goes quiet and thoughtful for a moment.

“Garrosh,” she starts, meeting him directly. “I understand you’re just trying to help him. But I don’t think this is way to do it. I know you only want the best for him- believe me, I do, too- but when you do it the way you’ve been doing, it only causes more problems than it fixes.”

“What do you propose I _do,_ then, Proudmoore?” he asks, sneering. There’s still a rumble in this throat, but she does not flinch. Her blue eyes seem to pierce through the dark.

“Tomorrow, if Varian hasn’t calmed down yet, I am going to go find him and convince him to come back before the next round starts,” she explains. “If my way doesn’t work, then I will try yours.” Garrosh perks up a little at this.

“Oh?” he says, guarded but still a little smug.

“Yes,” Jaina replies, a little resentful. “Whatever happens, Varian is going to be there. I will make sure of it. All that I ask is that you _please_ try not to directly confront him. If not for me, then for Thrall.” Garrosh doesn’t say anything for a minute. The growling recedes.

“I make no promises,” he tells her gruffly. Jaina sighs.

“Alright,” she accepts. “Goodnight.” He grunts in reply.

She settles down next to him again surprisingly well, considering their ending topic of conversation. There’s no quiver when he draws her in closer, and she makes herself at home in the shelter of his comparatively massive frame. She hides her face in the crook of his neck, and her breathing is gentle and even, chest rising and falling in time with his. Her presence is far more comforting than he could ever admit it would be; he falls asleep in minutes.

\---

When he wakes, she is still there. It’s early morning, and the light of dawn is soft and pale as it streams through the window. She’s still asleep; the room is quiet apart from her steady breath, and the return of the faint hum. He sighs, a little annoyed. Then, Jaina stirs.

She lifts her head but her eyes only open a crack, and a soft sound comes from her closed mouth. She looks at him blearily, questioning; there’s more soft sounds, a little more confused but nowhere near distressed. Garrosh is very strongly reminded of the sleek little creatures he’s encountered now and again during his stay on Azeroth. They were kept as pets over here, particularly by humans and elves. Thrall called them “cats,” he’s pretty sure. He didn’t entirely get the appeal of them; they were fiercely independent, even fickle, and notorious troublemakers, from what he’s heard. They weren’t nearly as strong as their larger brethren, nor were they anywhere near as obedient as wolves or dogs.

But he’s also heard, in the same breath of the people supposedly condemning them, that they were clever and vicious, that they were protective, loyal, loving companions once their trust had been earned. His encounters with them were few, more popular among the forsaken who once kept them in life and then again in death, and among the tauren, whose gentleness knew no bounds. They never appeared to like him, much. He was too rough, and never around them long enough to act otherwise.

Jaina rests her cheek on his jaw as she blinks up at him, and still breathes as though she were fully asleep, deeply and contently. She still awaits his answer.

“I’m alright,” he tells her lowly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” Jaina says, eyes closed, and returns to the crook of his neck, asleep again before she’s even put her head down. Her skin is soft under his calloused hands, and so is her breath against his neck. Her hands are warm where they rest on his chest, her body is warm where it’s tucked against his. Her hair is soft where it tickles the underside of his jaw, and her scent, intertwined with his, is warm and a little sweet. He settles back down, too, not quite willing to get up just yet. She adjusts accordingly and makes another contented little noise when she’s done.

He thinks he gets it, now.

\---

He wakes up again about an hour later, and groans, knowing that he can’t put off getting up any longer.

Jaina has drooled on him in her sleep. He takes it back. This was a mistake.

\---

Of all the ways this could have gone, this is not what she was expecting.

Sure, she had expected the tournament not to be taken seriously, and it wasn’t. She’d been expecting more tension between Alliance and Horde, and both Varian and Garrosh happily stepped up to fill the role of instigator. She’d even been expecting interference at the hand of Lich King, and interfere he did- just not in a way she could’ve predicted.

But really, no one was could have expected a giant sinkhole to open up beneath them right as the tournament ended, and they certainly couldn’t have expected a twice-dead Anub’arak to be waiting for them at the bottom of it. Arthas always did have an unfortunate tendency to exceed expectations, she supposed. But this was just unnecessary.

Similarly, when the earth crumbled beneath their champions, and they fell into the pits below, Garrosh exceeded expectations by leaping from the stands and into the pit. She knew in her heart of hearts that one of them- Varian or Garrosh- was going to do something profoundly stupid. She just hadn’t known that this would be on the table.

So of course, she also leaps in after them.

She’s not so reckless as Garrosh, and actually takes the time to make sure she has a safe landing by slowing her fall with magic, but she follows them in, just the same. She also takes the time to slow the fall of each and every one on the way down. Honestly, it’s a little nerve-wracking, but she manages to get them all, and no one suffers any serious injuries from the fall. The nerubians, however, were another story. It goes without saying of course that the nerubians began attacking them the minute they saw them, and that the Horde and Alliance champions were able to hold their own without much help from Jaina or Garrosh. Faction divides were dropped pretty quickly in the face of an immediate threat, and they were able to work in tandem relatively well. The fact that they were able to get along so well was a huge relief, to the point that it was almost kind of frustrating to watch, knowing that they were probably going to drop their newfound comradery the second they were out of danger.

She’s also not so fond of the way that the insects lead them further and further into the tunnels, but they don’t have much of a choice, at this point; the tunnels behind them were collapsing with each step they took, with nowhere to go but forward. Eventually, they made it to a large, open cavern, where the cryptlord awaited them. His intentions were to apparently bring the cave down on top on them to kill them all, but their champions took great offense to this, and took it upon themselves to kill him before he could go through with it. They did technically manage to do so beforehand, but that didn’t stop Anub’arak from getting in one last earth-shattering blow before he finally fell. There was a loud, dreadful crunch as the ceiling above them cracked, and several large pieces were threatening to fall and crush them. Jaina did not give them that chance.

An odd sort of calm takes hold of her, pulse racing but head clear, and time seems to slow, acting on thoughts and decisions before they’ve even fully formed in her mind. They come to life under her hand nonetheless, flinging frost from her open palms towards the ceiling. It sticks and spreads faster than the eye could follow, patching up the cracks before they could deepen any further. Jaina finally takes a breath.

“Is everyone alright?” she asks. Her own voice sounds foreign, somehow, like it’s coming from someone else. One of their champions- a forsaken man, with straps across his face and neither hair nor eyes- does a quick headcount among his party.

“All accounted for,” he croaks. A draenei woman in heavy plate follows suit, quickly counting up her teammates.

“Same here,” she calls.

“Alright,” Jaina says. She feels a little light-headed, and her fingers are slightly numb. “I don’t think I can make us a portal out of here. That took a lot more out of me than I expected. Can anyone else?”

“I don’t think I can, either,” another forsaken says, bedecked in orange robes. “Not a stable one, anyway.” Jaina glances around. There’s a gnome in blue robes, who shrugs.

“Same here,” he says. “I got nothing.” Jaina nods.

“Looks like we’re just going to have to wait for someone to come get us, then,” she says, partly to herself. “I doubt they’ll leave us down here for long; we’ll just have to sit tight for now. Just keep together and try to stay warm.”

There’s an ominous crack overhead. Jaina looks up. A slab of ice larger than her entire body is wresting itself free from her attempt to patch up the ceiling, and she barely has time to move, let alone breathe, before something comes crashing into her side, catapulting her out of the way. But there was already a spell on her lips before they had arrived, and now, the two of them careening to the side, she wraps them both in her arcane frost, cocooning them in a thick shell of ice right as the treacherous debris hits the ground outside. They go rolling along the floor before hitting something- probably the wall of the cavern- and coming to a stop. For a moment, she thinks it’s over, but then-

More crashing sounds, directly against their cocoon. Jaina flinches, and her would-be savior tightens their grip on her, tucking her against their armor and away from the assault. They have one arm wrapped around her waist and the other shielding her head. Another minute passes, and the crashing comes to a stop. Jaina can’t hear anything outside the cocoon anymore. She can’t hear anything beyond her own shortened breath. She cracks an eye open and peeks up.

It’s- it’s Garrosh. Of course it’s Garrosh.

“Are you alright?” she asks, a little shaken. She appears to have beaten him to the punch, because he opens his mouth to speak right as she does but can’t get it out quick enough. He lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “You?”

“I’m fine,” she replies. “Thank you.” She pauses, listening; she still can’t hear anything going on outside.

“I think we may have gotten buried under that falling rubble,” she says. “We’re going to have to wait for the others to dig us up before I can break the ice block.” Garrosh grimaces, letting out a little growl.

“How long will you be able to keep it in place?” he asks, preparing for the worst.

“It can stay up on its own just fine,” Jaina replies. “I’m more worried about running out of air before they can get to us, or freezing to death.” He exhales sharply.

“We won’t,” he tells her, determined. She tries to believe him.

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” she says. He frowns.

“Save your breath,” he tells her a little brusquely. It takes her a little longer than she’d like to admit to figure out that he meant that literally. She nods at him, still annoyed. Not another word is spoken between them.

\---

It’s a long time before anyone gets to them.

Later, Jaina learns that it wasn’t much more than a few hours, but while in there, time becomes meaningless. The seconds passing feel like eons. She feels trapped. She _is_ trapped. How can Garrosh be so _calm_ about this?

His breath sounds. Strange. His nose is right above her head, and she can hear every part of it, but this is not how it should sound. He only seems to take a breath every few minutes, unlike her rapidly shortening, frantic breaths. He looks down at her, squinting. He seems annoyed, but he doesn’t say anything. It only makes her feel worse. They’re cramped, but he manages to reach behind himself and wrap his cloak around the both of them. Clenching the thick red fabric between her fingers helps, somewhat, but her breath still stutters, and it’s more than they could afford. He cards his fingers through her hair. He taps a rhythm on her back.

“Count,” he tells her somewhat hoarsely. He takes a breath. She starts to count; he doesn’t take another breath until she’s reached twenty. He inhales again, tapping, and it’s easy to count along to each tap. He does it again, and again, and again, until she is keeping rhythm with him, until her breathing matches his. It is in no way natural, but in her having to focus on each breath and each beat, it doesn’t allow attention for anything else. There is only her, there is only him, there is only the staggered breaths, and the rhythm he leads them by.

Time passes quickly, then. So much so, that Jaina doesn’t notice it passing until there’s a knocking against the outer wall of the barrier. Jaina startles, and when she turns to see, there’s a vague figure taking shape just outside it. She taps Garrosh’s chest to get his attention, though there was no need; he had perked up the moment the knock reverberated through their makeshift tomb. He’s already looking down at her when she meets his gaze.

“Ready?” she mouths, no sound leaving her lips. He nods.

She raises the cloak to cover his head and hers. She says the Words, arcane lacing what little air she allowed herself to have, and the ice block cracks and shatters into needle-thin splinters, melting upon landing. Garrosh throws the cloak off, and all at once, there’s too much light, and sound, and the rush of air is dizzying. She flinches, covering her face, and Garrosh’s now-familiar hands help her up as he stands, himself. She recognized the eye of the Kirin Tor well enough, even if she could only see it for a moment. Their champions appear to be alright, from what she was able to see, but she gives herself another minute to adjust before opening her eyes again. When she does, Garrosh’s cloak is hung over her, held there by the orc himself. She squints at him, and it’s not entirely because of the sudden brightness. The shade certainly helps, but she has to question why, exactly, he’s suddenly taking it upon himself to act like this. Before she can ask, their rescuers are herding them towards the shimmering portal a few feet away.

The other side is brighter still, and she is blinded by the sunshine, deafened by the crowd still in the stands. But Garrosh follows through close behind, putting her under his cloak once more, and the two of them are hurried to the first aid tents. Time passes quickly again, here.

\---

The medics at the tournament’s first aid tents find nothing too, too out of place, with her; no broken bones, no bleeding, maybe a few bruises. At worst, using so much magic over an extended period of time has left her starving, dehydrated, and exhausted. Miraculously, she’s somehow managed to dodge hypothermia, though nobody says a word as to how. She imagines the state she was found in by their rescuers has spread around quickly enough. It’s just as well; she doesn’t care to speak of it.

They feed and water her, stick her in a cot in an area clearly sectioned off from the others, and tell her to rest while they tend to the wounds of their champions. Parts of the stadium had started to crumble into the pit shortly after she and Garrosh made their descent, apparently. She’s not too surprised at that; Anub’arak was pretty determined to bring the cavern down around them, and this is a fairly predictable outcome. No one’s died yet, she doesn’t think, but there’s certainly dozens and dozens injured who need help. It’s probably why they left her on her own so quickly; they just don’t have the time to spare, or manpower, if she’s well enough on her own. That being said, she is not alone for long.

Soon enough, she is joined again by Garrosh. It doesn’t bother her. She’s too tired to be bothered, and she’s long since accepted that at this point, she’s stuck with him, for better or worse. He’s not doing too much better than she is; there’s no mana to be spent with him, sure, but he’d been battered around a fair bit, and had to have his wounds cleaned and bandaged. Like with her, once they’ve determined that he isn’t going to drop right that moment, they leave him be to tend to other patients.

When he had first entered the room, Jaina had given him a little nod of acknowledgement before rolling over and attempting to get back to sleep. He had apparently taken that as a standing offer to interact with her. A few minutes after the medics get him settled, or at least lying down, he starts fidgeting. He rolls back and forth in his cot, trying to get comfortable, but most just making a racket and huffing and puffing the whole time. When he starts talking to her, her back is still facing him.

“They didn’t give you enough blankets,” he starts, apropos of nothing. “You’re going to freeze like that.” Her eyes flicker open, slightly annoyed. Far be it from her to accuse Hellscream the Younger of being a mother hen, but that didn’t take away from the fact that he was doing just that.

“I’m alright,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” he replies petulantly. “I can hear your teeth chattering from here. Hurry up and get over here.” Jaina takes a long moment and a deep breath before sitting up and turning around to face him properly. He’s propped up on his elbows to look at her, and the moment her eyes on him, he lifts the blanket he’s under and stares back at her impatiently. She thinks for a moment, weighing the possibilities, and realizes that in the long run, she’s not going to win this, and fighting it will probably just make it a lot more of a hassle than it really needed to be.

She slips out of her cot and pads over to his, only a few feet away. He barely waits for her to sit down before grabbing her the moment she’s in range and pulling her into the apparent warmth and safety of his arms. He is… _very_ warm, she will admit, and there is more give to his frame than she was initially led to believe. She was expecting a wall, and a wall there is, there’s just some measure of padding on top of it. Not that she’s complaining about that. Truth be told, she isn’t as nearly as opposed to this as she thought she would be, though she’s nowhere near admitting that, least of all to him. It’s just-

It’s nice to actually feel safe and wanted, for once. She hasn’t felt either in a very long time.

“Happy now?” she pokes anyway. She is not disappointed; Garrosh sighs and rolls his eyes at her, like he’s the one doing her the favor, like he isn’t coveting as much as he is protecting.

He turns them to lie on their sides, her back pressed along his torso, and the arm around her waist is heavy, but reassuring. It’s gentle, for shades of Garrosh. She doesn’t miss how he puts himself between her and the door, or how he hides her from view with his bulk and keeps the few blankets they have up to her ears. He’d probably cover her up entirely if she didn’t have to actually breathe. After she settles into the shelter he’s made of himself, he finally relaxes, sleep coming to him almost instantaneously. For once, she can say the same.

\---

It’s a rough night for everyone.

The assault on the citadel was about as horrible as predicted; Horde and Alliance alike lose dozens of soldiers in the assault, and while they were expecting it, seeing their fallen rise again on the side of the Scourge is just not something anyone can walk away from unscathed. The Ashen Verdict elects to set up camp in the citadel itself, and to get to work on clearing on the remaining scourge in the morning. There’s still a fair few of them working long into the night to clear debris, gather the dead, and tend to the wounded, but doing that as the main operation will start the following morning.  They’ve already started the initial steps towards cleanup and recovery, but it’s going to be a long road from here, and it’s going to take a lot of help.

Horde and Alliance forces stick around after the assault. They have their own wounded to tend to, sure, but the Ashen Verdict seem to be surprised that they’re not immediately packing up and taking off the moment they can. The Horde and Alliance seem surprised at this, too; with how much conflict that had been stirred up recently, it’s a bit of a shock that they were able to put aside their grievances for the time being and work together to push towards the frozen throne. Privately, Jaina’s not particularly surprised. This is hardly the first time this has happened. She just hopes it won’t be the last.

On that note, Jaina is utterly exhausted. She knew from the start that this venture would be taxing, but it’s gone far beyond what she could have ever imagined. The horrors she has witnessed in her time here and Northrend as a whole will undoubtedly linger in her dreams for some time to come. The nightmares don’t even wait to start until she’s home in her own bed. No, they’re quite happy to start haunting her pretty much the moment she attempts to lie down and close her eyes in her bedroll that night. It probably doesn’t help that she’s still on the citadel grounds, but. She can’t, in good conscience, just up and leave with so much of Arthas’ mess left to clean up. But she can’t exactly rest easy in what is essentially the ultimate culmination of his corruption.

She’s not proud of what she does, next; guiltily slinking to Thrall’s tent in the middle of the night after being unable to speak with him for more than a moment for months is not really something she feels great about. But the alternative- tossing and turning all night, being unable to sleep because she can’t close her eyes without seeing the black helm and icy blue eyes behind it- is much, much worse. So away she goes, in a heavy cloak and long nightgown, treading through the freshly fallen snow just outside the ruined gates. He’d arrived later than the rest of his forces, partly because they barely allowed him to go at all. Garrosh and Sylvanas went in his stead for the initial assault, and they didn’t seem too keen on him being there when he finally arrived. Too precious to lose, she supposed.

She speaks the soundless Words, and she casts no shadow under the half-moon above, nor do her shoes leave prints to follow. She casts no light, and no shape; all that look towards her instead see nothing and hear nothing. The only hint of her presence is a faint breeze drifting past, indistinguishable from any other.

She finds Thrall’s tent soon enough, and while she knew Thrall clever enough to see her before she’s revealed herself fully, she did not expect Garrosh to be. She also did not expect Garrosh to be here first, full stop, but that was apparently very foolish of her, because here he is in the flesh and in the place she sought to claim for herself. They’re all wrapped up in the furs Thrall has for his bed, with Thrall’s discarded armor on one side, and Garrosh’s on the other.

When she enters the tent, slipping through the canvas walls as easily as a ghost, it is not Thrall who greets her first- it’s Garrosh. She hasn’t even revealed herself yet, but he still sits straight up like she’d ripped open the door and let the cold wind blow through. His eyes dart around, nostrils flaring, before seemingly deducing where she is by scent alone and glaring at the spot where she stands. He can’t see her fully, probably, his eyes missing hers by mere inches, but he can undoubtedly see the air shimmering before him. Thrall stirs next to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, yawning. And then: “…Jaina?” Jaina lets the glamour fall.

“My apologies,” she replies quietly. “I didn’t mean to disturb the two of you.”

“It’s alright,” Thrall says, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “You couldn’t have known. What brings you here so late? Are you alright?” Jaina freezes. It’d be one thing if it was just Thrall there, but the two of them, together, presents an entirely different setup, and not one she’s prepared to deal with.

“It’s nothing that can’t wait ‘til morning,” she says repentantly, and she knows her smile is unconvincing. “I’ll leave you be. Have a good night.” But before she can say the Words again and skulk back to her tent, Garrosh interrupts her with a moody grunt.

“Stop that,” he gripes. “If you’re going to wake us up in the middle of the night, you might as well do what you came to do. Don’t be a coward.” Thrall stares at him disdainfully, but he doesn’t appear to care. Jaina sighs irritably. He’s right, of course.

“If you must know, I was having trouble sleeping,” she explains a little grumpily. “And Thrall and I have an arrangement wherein-” Thrall grimaces, trying to motion for her to cease, eyes pleading. “-if either one of us is having trouble sleeping, we help each other out by keeping each other company. Thrall, it’s no use, he already knows.” Thrall sighs. Garrosh turns to look at him, eyebrow quirked.

“What did you think _we_ were doing?” he asks, picking on him. “Did you think I didn’t know?” Thrall’s ears fold back and his brow furrows, annoyed.

“I merely wanted to protect your privacy,” he replies, surly. Garrosh scoffs at him.

“Anyway,” Jaina says, moving on. “I’ll be taking my leave now, gentlemen. Goodnight-”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Garrosh interrupts. Jaina raises an eyebrow. The irony appears to be lost on him. “This would hardly be the first time we’ve had to share a bed.” Thrall blinks, glancing back and forth between the two of them with no small amount of confusion.

“Fair enough,” Jaina allows.

“Excuse me?” Thrall asks. There’s the slightest edge of hysteria to his voice, barely held back.

“Dalaran mixed up our accommodations,” she reminds patiently.

“Yes, I know, but,” he starts, hasty. He ends up trailing off. His ears fold back again. Thrall is jealous of them, she realizes. How utterly ridiculous. How delightfully, utterly ridiculous.

“Thrall,” she starts softly. Thrall’s ears move forward of their own accord. “Do you mind if I stay the night here?”

“Not at all,” he replies, a little short of breath. His eyes are big and bright, and the tips of his ears are somewhat flush. “Not as long as Garrosh doesn’t.”

“Garrosh?” she asks, just as softly. He’s trying appear unimpressed, but his ears perk up, as well, at the sound of his name on her lips.

“Get over here before you freeze to death,” he tells her flatly. “Again.” Thrall turns to face him.

“What?” he asks. Garrosh doesn’t answer at first, shrugging. He seems to revel in Thrall’s distress. Jaina understands the feeling.

“It was hardly the first time we’ve shared a bed,” Jaina replies for him, climbing in next to Thrall. Garrosh barely stifles a grin as Thrall whips around to face her, now.

_“What?”_ he asks.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” she says.

\---

The mood hardly stays light for long.

She’s thankful for what little time they help her to forget, but her relative peace is interrupted soon enough. She manages to fall asleep to the sound of their collective breathing, surrounded by their warmth, and for this she is thankful as well, but it does not hold off the nightmares that follow.

It’s the usual topic of focus- Arthas, and Stratholme, the curious, violent madness that took him, and how there’d been hints of it coming all along. She could have stopped this. She could have stopped him.

_“You abandoned me,”_ Arthas sneers. Fury twists his face into something unrecognizable. The white and gold armor turns black.

She does not deny this.

Frostmourne glimmers in his fist, and the connection between him and the sword is blurred. His eyes have sunken into his skull. His eyes are white pinpricks in a sea of black, his skin is thin and sallow, his hair is white and wild. He looks at her. The sword looks at her. It hungers. He hungers. They, together-

_“You abandoned me,”_ he sneers again. His voice has gone deep and gravelly. The smell of smoke is overwhelming, and so is the smell of burnt and rotting flesh. Screams ring in her ears. Uther falls, Antonidas falls, Terenas falls, Sylvanas falls-

_“You did this,”_ he says, they say, they are one, he and the sword, and she can hardly tell when one ends and the other begins. Countless fall. Their ghosts linger all around. They claw at her living body.

_“I know,”_ she says. She does not stop them. She cannot.

They grab at her body. Arthas’ voice is in her ear.

_“Jaina,”_ he calls. She thrashes in their grip. An act of futility, she knows.

_“Jaina,”_ he calls again. She yelps, she cries, she screams. They will not cease. She cannot escape.

“Jaina,” someone calls, and she awakens.

Her eyes snap open. There are tears running down her face, and a hand on her shoulder. Their voice is deep, but quiet and gentle, fearful of causing harm. She’s shaking and feels hollowed out. Her throat is dry, and she cannot speak. It takes far too long for her to recognize Thrall, and she jerks away from him when he tries calling her name again. He lets go upon seeing her go cornered and half-feral.

“It’s alright,” Thrall tells her. He’s barely awake. “You’re alright. It’s just us.” Garrosh is sitting up and watching her from Thrall’s other side. His expression is unreadable.

“He’s gone,” Garrosh tells her. He gives her the mercy of not invoking him by name, and for this she is very thankful. He already knows well enough who plagued her thoughts in sleep. Anyone who’s been alive the past five years knows.

“I know,” Jaina manages to croak. She doesn’t really know how. Her breath comes short, and her pulse thunders away frantically in a heart that’s numb with dread. “I’m sorry,” she tells them. She doesn’t even know why. Garrosh watches her intently. He reaches towards her with two large hands, slowly, as to not startle.

“Come here,” he says. He holds her by the arms and drags her to lie between him and Thrall. It’s not graceful, or careful, by any means, but his grip is steadying, for all the discomfort it causes her.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and her eyes go blurry with tears.

“Stop that,” he tells her, masking worry with annoyance. “Why do you think _I’m_ here?” Jaina blinks the tears out of her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she answers quietly. Garrosh honestly seems surprised.

“Dranosh was my brother,” Garrosh tells her, somewhat muted. He doesn’t say anything else. She blinks again, and it comes rushing back, and she feels very stupid, indeed. The elder Saurfang looked like his body had emptied itself of his soul after the walking corpse bearing his son’s name and his son’s face had been put down. The younger Saurfang, a puppet, until his very last moment.

He thanked them, in the end, and his gratitude will haunt them until the end of their days, it seems- Varok’s and Garrosh’s, both.

“Oh,” she says. It feels useless, but she has to fill up the empty space, somehow.

“He was all I had, for the longest time,” Garrosh says after another moment. The reason for this isn’t clear, at first.

“You have us,” Thrall says. Sleep is heavy on his brow, and it has made him open with his affection. He crowds up to both of them, leaving nary any space between them, and pulls Garrosh closer to himself, to Jaina. The bigger orc lets himself be pulled along, and lets Thrall in his half-sleep press his forehead to Garrosh’s own. There’s a pleased rumble emanating from Thrall’s chest, and Jaina can feel it in the kisses he plants on the crown of her head.

“He’s- he’s right,” Jaina manages. She’s not sure when this became true, but it is, and he does. He has them, and she does, too.

Garrosh wraps his arm around the both of them, crushing them closer together. It’s a little bit more forceful than is strictly necessary, but to be perfectly honest, having someone that would fight to keep her is a nice change of pace. Having the both of them- even better.

His grip relaxes after a moment, though he gives not an inch, and Thrall throws an arm around her waist, broad hand on her belly, tangling his legs between theirs. He buries his nose in her hair, and the rumbling continues. She wonders what he will say, when he wakes up and sees where he has put himself. Sleep finds her again, in time.

\---

The rest of the night isn’t exactly easy, still fraught with nightmares and restlessness, but they have each other, and that’s certainly more than any of them could have expected.

The sun rises. The night ends. They survived. They make it through the night, like they have all others that have passed before. Some harder than others, but the fact remains the same.

They make it through the night.


End file.
